Common Flowers
by Ambrosia Farnese
Summary: Now and then, life is beautiful. A series of one-shot ficlets catching Merlin and the others in moments of quiet and happiness.
1. Common Flowers

_Disclaimer: _Merlin_ and its characters are not mine. No money is made from this. It's purely for the joy of writing._

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_Author's note: These are little pieces that float into my head from time to time. Merlin, Arthur, and company see so much darkness it's easy to forget moments of light. I don't know how many of these there will be, or how often I'll update it. It all depends on the muse, I guess. _

_Please send reviews my way. I'd love to hear your thoughts on any of these little stories._

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_Takes place after the S4 episode, 'His Father's Son'. _

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The King of Camelot stands alone in a field, picking wildflowers. It is a ridiculous sight, and a beautiful one. A knight in shining armor, his cloak billowing in the wind, his warhorse following behind him. A triumphant young king in glory, with his exultant army following behind, paused by the side of the road to pick flowers for a common born serving girl. An apology, I know, for his foolish words.

Gwaine's laughter floats over the tall grass. He mocks his king, as he always does, and the others do as well before they ride on, their spirits flying high as the clouds. I wait for him, as I always do. These moments of peace are too rare, too lovely to let pass by unnoticed. King Arthur, under a golden sky amongst a field of spring flowers. It might be enough to earn her forgiveness, assuming he does not trip over his tongue. One day he will give her a crown. For now, he settles on flowers from the side of a road. Sometimes love is so deliriously simple.

He finally settles on a handful of pale blue blossoms. Blue, because Guinevere is beautiful in blue. He walks back up the hill to me, and I hand him a cloth to fold the flowers into. In his gloved hands, the delicate stems are almost ridiculous and he tries to hand them off to me. I wave him away. They're his gift to give, not mine.

"I don't have saddlebags to carry them in. I'll crush them," he says, but I refuse to take them. It's a small enough gesture, these flowers. It will mean more if he carries them to her himself.

Arthur scoffs, but relents. From time to time, he does listen to me, even if he finds a way to make a joke of it in the end. "What do you know of love, anyway?" he asks.

'_Many things_', I want to say. I know what it is to find love, to hold it close and chase its fears away. I know the desire to abandon all duty and run far, far away with it; to bring everything your love wants and more; to sit and talk by candlelight half the night and stare into her eyes for the rest of it. And I know the heartbreak of losing such a love.

"Nothing," I say instead. "Nothing at all."


	2. The Bright North Star

_Arthur and Guinevere, set just after S4._

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A shriek echoes up from the courtyard, and I am halfway to the window before I realize I'm moving. The scream turns to laughter as I look outside and find nothing more threatening than two maidservants reaching for a gossamer scarf stolen by the wind. They hop around in a flurry of brightly colored skirts to catch the scarf back, but the flirtatious wind keeps it just outside of their reach. Then Percival steps to their rescue, his long arms retrieving the scarf before it can fly away forever. He offers it to the girls with a gracious bow and they take it back, their cheeks a charming shade of pink before they skitter away in a cloud of whispers and giggles poorly hidden behind their hands. If this is the day's greatest misfortune, I'll count myself blessed. Percival has two new admirers, and the bandit wind will have to look elsewhere to steal a Lady's favor.

Ladies. Maidservants, so full of grace and the simple beauty of spring mornings. How is it that so few see them in such a light? And when did I change, who used to see maids instead of young ladies? When did I begin to see common-born servants as more than the sum of their stations? Probably when one stole my heart away. She is here now, my new bride, my Queen, resplendent in red velvet and bathed in sunlight. She doesn't notice I'm watching her; she has already looked away, her mind on matters of state while mine is full of her. Am I shirking my responsibilities? Yes, but it is for the best cause. Love. It is at the top of the list of ideals to reach for, next to peace.

I have heard it said that if a man attains one of those, his life has been well-spent. How much better is mine now that I have both? I could be the king of a hovel in the woods and call myself the most fortunate man in the world, so long as I had Guinevere at my side, my bright star to guide me home again.

On a whim, I reach down to lay a kiss on her cheek.

"What was that for?" she asks. I shrug and smile in response. It was for everything and nothing. Do you need a reason to be in love?

She has all the grace of a songbird in flight and a will of steel, bound up in beauty as deep as the night sky. Queen Guinevere. My love, my bright north star.


	3. The Art of Skipping Stones

_Merlin and Arthur. Set sometime during S2. _

There is an art to skipping stones. Arthur doesn't believe me. He says that swordplay has artistry, and the aiming of a crossbow. But skipping stones? "You're just chucking rocks at a duck pond, Merlin," he says, and to prove that there is nothing to is, he finds a stone. A perfect skipping stone- round and flat and smooth- takes it in his hand and flicks it across the water. It sinks like the stone that it is. He scowls at the ripples and then at me, because I am right.

There is an art to skipping stones. You have to find the right one, the proper weight and size, the one that fits your hand, that settles between your fingers and palm. It must be smooth to skip across the water; if it's too rough, it will break the surface and disappear into the depths. The wrong shape will keep it from spinning the way it must to keep flying even after it's hit the water a time or two. A careful search and I find a good one, take it in my fingers, hold it just so, flick my wrist in the right sort of way, and let it fly . . .

It skips once . . . twice . . . thrice . . . Five times, all told. Nearly to the other side of the pond. Arthur scowls again, and then takes up the search for another good stone. His servant will not outdo him, even if it is in the doing of something as simple as chucking rocks at a duck pond. He holds a few up to the waning sun as though examining them, but I can tell he is trying to tell if I approve of his decision. I refuse to answer. If there is an art to skipping stones, there is an art to choosing them, as well, and he will never learn to do it right if he doesn't make a few mistakes first. That he does not simply order us home tells me he's willing to make mistakes. And I am willing to let him blunder about.

This is how I know Arthur will be a good king one day. Not because a dragon tells me that, or because some prophet says so. I know it because he is willing to make mistakes and learn from them. Because he strives to outdo me in all things. He wants to be the best at skipping stones, the best at swordplay, the best hunter; the wisest, and the most just king that ever there was. He thinks he wants to become a king like his father, but I know better. Uther is the twilight in the dark of the moon. Arthur will shine like the sun.

I am brought out of my reverie by his laughter. From the ripples, I see that he has finally skipped a stone across the water. Just three times, but he has only tried it a few times. I send another out, skipping it five times again, and back and forth we go until the light fails and we have to leave. As we head back to the horses, he dusts a hand across my hair then rests it on my shoulder. "All right, Merlin," he says, "Just this once, I'll admit that you were right. There is an art to skipping stones."


End file.
